A Bird Pooped on My Head and Other Life-Changing Moments

True story: a peaceful morning, blue sky, the smell of damp leaves on the sidewalk, birds chirping with enthusiasm that can only mean one thing—trouble. I’m out walking my adorable Papillon, Blueberry (who is, let’s be honest, the true star of my writing life), when BAM.

Something hits me.

Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. Physically. With a plop.

I know immediately. There’s no mystery here. I’m a cozy mystery author, and even I don’t need clues for this one.

A bird just pooped on me.

Right on the head. Bullseye. Olympic-level accuracy. Somewhere, that bird is getting high-fived by its feathered friends and earning itself a tiny gold medal for "Most Precise Aerial Delivery."

And let me tell you—it was disgusting.

So there I am, frozen on the sidewalk, trying not to scream in front of my dog, who is looking up at me like, “Why are you standing still, and also… ew.” I sprint home, Blueberry bouncing along beside me, clueless to the drama, and I leap into the shower like I’m auditioning for a shampoo commercial—only with more shrieking.

Once clean and semi-recovered, I do what any rational human would do: I Google, “What does it mean when a bird poops on you?”

According to the Internet (which has never lied to me), it means good luck in many cultures.

Now. I don’t know which cultures these are, but I have questions. Who decided this? Was it an ancient optimist trying to make the best of a very bad day? Or just someone with really poor aim who needed a reframe?

But you know what? I’m choosing to believe it. Because life is a bit like that, isn’t it?

Stuff happens. Weird, messy, unexpected stuff. You’re walking along minding your business, and life throws bird poop at your head. Metaphorically. (And sometimes very, very literally.)

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe good luck isn’t about lottery wins or overnight success. Maybe it’s about how you choose to look at things. Maybe the real good fortune is having the chance to reframe a situation, to laugh when you want to cry, and to share that ridiculous, poopy moment with readers who will nod and say, “Yep. Been there.”

As a writer, especially one who specializes in cozy mysteries full of quirky characters and small-town chaos, I’ve learned that the most relatable moments are often the messy, unplanned ones. The ones you didn’t see coming. The ones you think ruined your day but end up inspiring a blog post and giving your readers a giggle.

And maybe, just maybe, that unexpected splat from above was a cosmic reminder to keep my head up, even when things get gross.

So the next time life gets messy, whether it’s metaphorical bird poop or the real deal, remember this: you might not be able to control the sky, but you can control the story you tell about what lands on you.

As for me? I’m starting this week believing I’m lucky. And yes—I’m avoiding trees for a little while.

The Absolute Madness of Naming Characters

Let’s talk about one of the most ridiculous struggles of writing a book. No, I’m not talking about the part where you stare at the blinking cursor like it personally insulted your ancestors. I’m talking about naming characters. It should be easy, right? Just slap a name on them and move on? Oh, my sweet summer child. If only. See, naming a character is like naming your kid—except worse, because nobody is going to complain if your kid and their cousin both end up being named Liam. But if your main villain is named Liam and you accidentally give the quirky coffee shop owner in book three the same name? Cue the existential crisis. Let’s walk through the madness. The Overthinking Spiral of Doom You start writing, and there’s that moment: your brand-new character walks onto the page, full of potential. All they need is a name. A simple name. Something strong, something fitting, something— Oh no. Nothing sounds right. This one is too complicated. That one is too simple. ...

Stories Are Everywhere: The Writer’s Endless Inspiration

As a writer, one of the most common questions I’m asked is, “How do you come up with your stories?” It’s a question that often makes me smile because the answer is as simple as it is profound: stories are everywhere. Inspiration doesn’t always strike in grand, dramatic moments. More often than not, it emerges quietly, weaving its way into the fabric of everyday life. Conversations with friends, the sights and sounds of a bustling city, or even the stillness of a room can spark the seed of an idea. Writers aren’t just storytellers; we’re observers, collecting fragments of life and spinning them into tales. Let me share a recent example of how a simple evening turned into the genesis of a new story idea. Over two perfectly crafted negronis, I was discussing the schedule for an upcoming event with a friend. Their house, a treasure trove of artwork, surrounded us. Every piece of art seemed to hum with a story of its own. Midway through the second drink, I remarked, “One day, someb...

Negronis, art, and the Next Mystery

You know you have the best readers in the world when they politely demand the next book—with extra exclamation marks and not a hint of shame. So many of you have been asking (some quite insistently, and with the kind of enthusiasm that makes my day) about the next Magical Papillon Mystery . Those of you who asked on social media — thank you!!! To all of you, I say — bless your sweet, book-loving hearts, and fear not. Pixie will return! Here’s what happened… Last Christmas, after one (or more) festive Negronis with my very talented artist friend, I made the kind of pronouncement that can only come after equal parts gin, vermouth, and orange. I looked around her house — absolutely overflowing with paintings, colors, and canvases stacked like leaning towers of artistic chaos — and said something like, “Wouldn’t it make a great story if someone inherited a house full of original art, and every painting had a secret behind it, and they had to solve the mysteries one by one…?” Well. One...

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